


Holly Jolly Holiday

by Dawnwind



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Christmas, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-16
Updated: 2015-12-16
Packaged: 2018-05-07 03:45:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5442173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dawnwind/pseuds/Dawnwind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The obbo's all gone to holly and Bodie takes his sweet time picking the stuff out of Doyle's hair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Holly Jolly Holiday

Holly Jolly Holiday  
By Dawnwind

“Go left you said,” Doyle groused, wincing. “Round the back! And directly into a bramble of holly.”

“You looked like a Christmas elf risin’ out of the earth,” Bodie chuckled. He gently yanked a sprig of holly from Doyle’s curls and tossed the green spikey leaves over his shoulder. 

The floor of Bodie’s lounge was littered with bits of holly berries and leaves, as if the small Christmas tree in the corner had shaken off half of its decorations. 

“I was enchanted. Gave our kidnapper the vapours. He was so startled, he walked right into me arms.”

“It’s all caught in the wool of my jumper,” Doyle complained, carefully pulling his jumper over his head. Holly scraped his face, leaving another painful slash. “And tangled in my hair. Did like the way Princess Anne walloped Jones with her purse.”

“We caught her kidnapper,” Bodie said with a certain sympathetic pride, liberating another cluster of holly from Doyle’s hair. “Saved Princess Anne, restored the Royal family…” 

“Ow, you cretin, be careful.” Doyle peered at his bare arms, liberally criss-crossed with long red scratches, spots of blood visible here and there.

“Could get a recommendation for that. Possibly a knighthood.” He grinned in that slightly crazed way that came after they’d finished an intense obbo. “I’d like that. Sir Bodie.”

“Sir William, pillock,” Doyle said sourly. He couldn’t imagine what his face looked like—felt like he’d been stung by a dozen bees. “And you know Father would never allow that. We’re—“

“Just doing our jobs, laddie,” Bodie finished in a fair approximation of Cowley’s Scottish burr. “No accolades, no notable garters or honourable orders, only the knowledge that England reigns supreme because we’ve been there to carry our staves into battle, Sir Raymond.”

“Our staves?” Doyle stopped attempting to unwind a sprig the hair above his right ear.

“Staff.” Bodie straightened, holding an imaginary spear at his side, like an Arthurian knight.

“Aren’t staves what barrels are made from?” Doyle inquired. At least the rampant silliness was taking his mind off the pain. 

“Wine barrels or beer barrels?” Bodie asked, walking into the loo. He returned with a tube of antibiotic ointment and plasters. 

“Does it matter?” Doyle snatched the ointment out of his hand, spreading some on the worst of the scratches on his arms. 

“It must to the barrel maker, I suppose,” Bodie mused, dipping a cotton tipped applicator to end of the ointment.

“Could go for a beer right now,” Doyle sighed. Alcohol would sooth—and fill his stomach.

Bodie leaned in close, applying medicine to Doyle’s cheek. “If we go out, you’ll scare the children.”

“No children at the Rod and Staff,” Doyle hissed when Bodie probed a particularly sore cut. 

“No children here, either,” Bodie said, eyebrow slanted at a particularly wicked angle. “I may not have beer, but I’ve got George’s Christmas pressie in.” He brushed his lips over the place he’d just medicated, then kissed Doyle more properly on the lips.

“You opened yours before Christmas? I’m guessing he didn’t give you aftershave cologne,” Doyle pressed into the kiss, savouring the warmth even such brief contact gave. “Cause you smell like Anson’s cigars.”

“Berk,” Bodie chastised, fitting his palm around the back of Doyle’s neck. “He were driving the van, smoking like Santa’s chimney. And, I’ll have you know, me Gran always let me open one gift on Christmas eve morning, so I’d be a good lad and go to church.”

“That was the reason, eh?” Doyle snickered, laying back against the settee. A holly leaf caught in the seam of his cotton vest poked, and he shifted to let Bodie wriggle it out. “I’ll reckon you didn’t go to church today.”

“Got much better things to worship, Sir Raymond.” 

Bodie tossed the last of the holly aside, looking down at Doyle’s sprawl with such abject love that Doyle felt a flush run the length of his body.

“Where’s that bottle then?” 

“First things first.” Bodie unzipped his flies.

“Ah, your staff,” Doyle observed. He’d always liked Bodie’s cock: full, thick and proud, like its owner. “Or is it a stave?”

“Doesn’t matter a whit to me,” Bodie said. “As long as it fits into place.”

“It always has before.” Doyle shucked his blue jeans, noting absently that there were several thin red scrapes on his thighs, but he didn’t feel a thing. Sexual endorphins, the ultimate painkiller. With the tight jeans gone, his erection swelled all the more. “What about combining the two?”

“What you mean?” Bodie reached out to grasp Doyle’s narrow hips

“Sex and whisky—“

“Rock and roll, bay-bee,” Bodie drawled in an American accent. “Mick Jagger all the way.” He leaned over, scooping a bottle bag from under the Christmas tree. Pulling out the whisky, he took an inaugural swallow. 

“Pour it on your barrel stave,” Doyle suggested, dropping to his knees on the carpet.

“Your mum know you use that kind of language?” Bodie snorted, but he dripped a dram onto his cock. “Bloody hell, it’s cold—and burns…”

Doyle was on him immediately, slurping the potent alcohol and sucking greedily on Bodie’s erection. Bodie groaned passionately, exhaling as Doyle tightened his lips to create suction. His own cock pushed against his belly, demanding attention. He doubted Bodie was in any position to give him care, and that was perfectly fine. Time enough for that after.

He rejoiced at the feeling of Bodie’s thickness filling his mouth, almost to choking. The earthy taste of the drink lingered on his tongue as he slid off, looking up at his victim. Bodie had fallen back against the cushions, his eyes glazing over. He reached out, tangling his fingers in Doyle’s curls. 

“A Christmas elf—haloed in holly,” he managed.

Fiendishly, Doyle sucked Bodie back in, scraping his teeth along the tender underside of the cock as he cupped his hand around Bodie’s balls, kneading rapidly. Whether it was the slight abrasion or the manipulation of his scrotum, Bodie blew, pumping fluid into Doyle’s mouth. 

He’d never liked the flavour, but he swallowed some before pulling off, letting the stream hit his already sweaty, blood stained vest. 

“How do you want the rest of your whisky, Sir Bodie?” Doyle whispered, amazingly tired. It was a good fatigue, born of honest labour, pain and very good sex. He just needed a helping hand to put him over the top and into sleep.

“Not sure I’ll ever be able to drink a drop without remembering this.” Bodie sighed in contentment. “Your mouth full of—“

Doyle wrapped his lips around the opening of the bottle and tipped it back. An intoxicating burn slid over his palate and down his throat, wrapping him in heaven. When Bodie corralled Doyle onto his lap, he made no protest, taking a second swig.

Bodie palmed Doyle’s cock, closing his fingers around the length. The sensation sent vibrations through Doyle’s core, dancing with the slight buzz from the liquor. All the little stings from dozens of holly lacerations chorused for his attention, but he focussed on Bodie. On his lover milking his cock, taking the pains away with a swipe of his hand.

When he climaxed, fireworks going off inside his head, he slumped heavily onto Bodie, breathing raggedly. 

“Merry Christmas, love,” Bodie whispered in his ear. “Now get off, you’re heavier than you look.”

“It’s the holly,” Doyle muttered, surprised to feel yet another sharp leaf twined in his hair. “Adds a stone.” He clambered off, curling up at the other end of the settee.

“I’ve a mind to gather up all the leftovers,” Bodie waved a lazy hand at the greenery strewn across the floor, “and make a wreath, to be brought out in winter for my Christmas elf.”

“You do that an’ I’ll be taking this bottle home without sharing,” Doyle declared.

“It’s yours anyway.” Bodie grinned unrepentantly. “Cowley knew we’d be spending Christmas night together and gave me both bottles. The other’s tucked safely in my drinks cabinet.”

“So you’re Father Christmas then, giving out the pressies?” Doyle hugged the bottle to his chest. He should get up and wash, but sleep beckoned so sweetly.

“Yeah, guess I am.” Bodie looked smug.

“You wear the bleedin’ holly then, Christmas elf.”

FIN


End file.
